I feel awkward and uncomfortable in his home. He lives in an industrial-style loft on the Upper East Side in a highly modern building. We have a doorman and a receptionist who handle everything. Inside the penthouse, which spans the top two floors, Griffin specifically arranged for the staff not to be on a tight rotation because he doesn’t want to know them. They wear identical teal-green uniforms. The women wear skirts; the men, pants. Everyone has the same crisp white shirt and nametag.
Even the chef wears teal. Right now, he’s the only one here. A housekeeper comes every other day.
Despite having people in the home with me, I can't develop a relationship with them because tomorrow there will be somebody new. I feel completely alone.
There's a massive modern living room, sleek and white. Even the rugs are white. I'm afraid to go in there because I tend to be clumsy. If I drop a blueberry, I'm going to ruin the entire aesthetic. The dining room is also white with upholstered white chairs. I'm uncomfortable eating there, so I dine on the terrace. At least there’s a breeze.
Griffin told me I could redecorate the bedroom, but I don’t feel like this is my home. And his bedroom is problematic. It's where I sleep, yet it’s also where I feel the most trapped.
The terrace features a beautiful sauna and hot tub, a rooftop lounge, and a swimming pool. These places are morewelcoming. I haven't been myself, so today I take time just to read and recover after the chef makes me a berry smoothie. Earlier, I ordered books from a local store that were delivered within the hour. That is a perk of being rich: paying for instant gratification. I hunker down with a big-brimmed hat I found in Griffin’s room and read to get out of my head.
When Griffin comes home later that night, he explains in a rush that we have two public events for children's organizations this week. I have to put on a show of being a doting newlywed, as our marriage is going to be announced at both.
“Did you go shopping today?” he asks as he takes off his suit jacket. “I’m hoping you found something to wear for tomorrow night.”
He’s trying to sound nice, but his stress is bleeding through.
“I stayed in and read today. I haven’t really had a day off since I left Iowa. Can I shop tomorrow? What do you want me to wear?” I figure it’s easier if he just tells me.
“Of course. I’m glad you took the day off. I’ll have a car drop you off at a boutique I use.” He walks into the living room. I close my book and follow him.
“Do you often buy dresses? Maybe you already have something...”
“Nothing that will fit you.” He looks in the fridge, searching for food. “Have you had dinner?”
“No. Would you like me to purchase formal wear?”
“Yes. Something sexy.” He flashes me a quick, distracted smile.
“Of course,” I playfully huff. Sex and witty banter are all we really have. “Would you like to eat together?”
“I need to work,” he answers quickly.
I’m almost relieved.
“Of course,” I say again, holding my book to my chest like a shield. I retreat toward the room he’s given me.
“Where are you going?” he asks, sounding surprised.
“I thought I’d finish this in my room.”Don’t cry, don’t cry.
“Without eating?”
“I’ll get something later,” I say, trying to be pleasant.
He tosses his phone at me. I’m lucky I catch it.
“What the—?”
“Dominico’s has the best antipasto salad. Their calzones are amazing, and we need their tiramisu. Punch in what you want; it’ll be here in twenty. I’m going to take a shower and then I’ll meet you in the dining room. You can read while I work.”
He’s in boss mode. I’m not sure I like it.
“Is that an order?” I push back.
“Until you stop running away from me, it is.”
Fuck.
